The Brotherhood
by glucena
Summary: The Dragonborn disappeared, Whiterun is over attack by some unknow enemy, the darkness has never been as close as it is now. The war is imminent. The darkness will come out and Skyrim will never be the same again.
1. Through The Night, We Walk

**Chapter one - Through the Night, We Walk**

The cold wind of the north came. The horses, in silence, stood in the stables. The colours of the aurora borealis lighted Skyrim. It was a quiet night. There was no signal of any threats. No dragon signal, no wolf's attack, nothing. The moon slipped away swiftly the sky. The morning soon came.

The people over Whiterun were awakening; the bars, the blacksmith and the general stores were opening. All three districts were slowly rising to life. The Bannered Mare – a friendly inn, offering exquisite politeness, mead, food, entertainment and a warm, welcoming fire; the warm glow lighting up the town. Arcadia's Cauldron, offering all alchemy needs for the growing warrior, stood close-by. Next to Arcadia's, there stands Belethor's General Goods – selling_everything_; both trading and purchasing is available, from books to weapons, potions to food. The Drunken Huntsman, a local tavern and hunting shop – predictably living up to its name, the Drunken Huntsman specialises in a friendly pub, providing ale and food, but also the option to purchase armoury goods, especially archery equipment. Across from the Drunken Huntsman, stands Warmaiden's; weaponry, armoury and shop, filled with equipment and goods designed to fulfil a local's necessities. As rivalled with The Bannered Mare as the most popular congregation points, the Whiterun Marketplace - known for its vast supply of produce; meat, vegetables, fresh fruit and even jewellery.

Eventually, the sellers went to the stands. But all the food, the meat, the vegetables; they were all gone. The large produce crates were all over the floor, no Stormcloak's guards were to be found; there was nothing but blood all over the path to Dragonsreach. On the bridge to the front door of Dragonsreach, all the weapons of the Stormcloak's guards were scattered all over the wooden bridge, all the way up to the great porch. The usually clear, blue stream running alongside Dragonsreach was flowing with masses of dead bodies. All the bodies either belonged to guards, or locals. The water was crimson from the blood.

On the Dragonsreach front door, a sharp bladed Dragonbone dagger was wedged in the wood; fresh, maroon coloured blood oozing down the dagger.

Ulfric Stormcloack stood watching his city fall, wilting in fear; his face colourless and blank with distress. His army was destroyed; the unknown enemy could attack whenever it wished. There was no protection, the walls would easily fall to the nemesis; what with the army defeated, and the locals would not wish to fight. The panic on Whiterun was clear. The sellers, the families, the workers; most of the population had fled within the past little while. The walls of Solitude seemed taller, stronger; more able to look after them. Seeking safety and security, they left.

Whiterun became a ghost town, the echoes of silence through the empty streets and houses made Ulfric fear the next daunting night. The only sounds in the town were the distant calls of birds, the wind swirling, gentle breezes whispering over Whiterun, the faded trickle of water in the bloody stream. All of Skyrim considered Whiterun as afflicted. The crows were soon sent to inform the other cities of Whiterun's carnage and devastation. Every living being that set foot in the streets of Ulfric's prized Whiterun were to be cursed - undeniably.

And there Ulfric stayed, his companions joined him - they would battle for their homeland, the King bought services to protect him and his brethren. They would keep their home even if they had to become the bloody beasts that they really are.

The night was calm - so was the next morning. The Gildergreen tree began to bud dark red leaves, as red as Falmer's blood. Some red guards were sent from Solitude, they had no idea what was happening or who – or what – was responsible for the bloodshed. Ulfric took important papers, maps, important books; took his axe, mounted his horse and travelled to the walls of Solitude.

The companions stayed at Dragonsreach, preparing for some unknown enemy. By the third night, footsteps and voices could be heard from inside the city. The companions weren't a big assembly - they couldn't look after every corner of the city. They went to the most important places so they could watch as much as possible from inside the walls. From the gates of Whiterun, they could hear a scream – but it was not humane. Something started breaking the gates down, loud screeching and howling echoed from the other side of the gate. The courageous, brave companions waited for their death; swords brandished and bows aiming towards the opponent's position. Shields up and armour ready, they stood, waiting anxiously. Pieces of wood started to fall from the gate, sent hurtling – the unknown enemy soon to be revealed to them.


	2. The White Knight

**Chapter Two - The White Knight**

The strong, wooden gate fell to the hard ground. Through the deathly dark, they could see nothing but two eyes, glowing like luminous orbs, staring back at them. The eyes lit up the entire area, almost blinding the companions. One of the companions ran into the darkness. The enemy's screams were loud; they could hear fresh blood dripping on the cold, dark ground. There was nothing but silence. The companion didn't come back.

A man came out of the dark – alone. He was wearing a black and red cloak that flowed down to his ankles. Strong, silver straps encased his forearms, mysterious symbols hidden in between. An oversized hood covered his mysterious face. Leather straps entwined around his body, small pockets and arrows held in a sheath; he was armed with a bow and two glass daggers. He wore dark brown, leather, boots, reaching up to his knees; they were traced with dirt, the mysterious man's travels to the city were evident. Dark, cloth encased his legs. A long piece of red cloth flowed down from his left shoulder down to his waist. Silver, carved armour with enigmatic emblems concealed his shoulders. The majority of his face was blacked out by the light of his eyes and his hefty hood; his mouth barely visible.

The companions went together to face the lonely enemy. Blood was all over the enemy's hand and both of the daggers. They surrounded the man; his hopes and chances were lost – there was no way he would escape from there alive – at least so they believed.

The first arrow was quickly shot into the enemy. He caught the arrow before it had the chance to even touch his flesh. He let the arrow fall as he threw a sharp, light knife into one of the companions. They attacked at the same time. The assassin could move fast and agile; like wind. The swords were too slow to hurt the target. He dodged all the arrows and swords, he could jump high and he quickly disarmed all of the companions. With his dagger, he killed the companions; one by one, eight in a row. Four of the companions ran back to Dragonsreach.

The assassin moved swiftly over the roofs, using the environment at his side. The flying of his knives were brisk; the fastest kill the companions' eyes had ever seen. He could run like an horse, jump across the roofs like a grasshopper, deadly like a vicious animal and undefeatable like a giant.

The last companions locked themselves in Dragonsreach, checked all the windows and waited. There was nothing they could do; eight of their men dead like unwanted rats.

A strong smell of smoke was streaming into the castle. There was a thick, yellow light traveling in through the windows; the silence was broken with the vulgar sound of houses falling. They quickly escaped and moved to the large, abandoned Great Porch. The porch faced the north, an open area looking out into the distance. Grey, bricked walls reached high into the sky, forming a large arch. A bulky dragon trap hung from the top of the ceiling; strong links of chain suspending it. Two white flags were hung up on either side of the heavy, wooden door. Wooden torches gave a warm glow to the porch, lighting the way of the companions.

Gathered round Jarl's long, wooden table, five more assassins were there, ready to meet the companions. Like an identical group, their clothes were just the same - the dark boots and the black and red cloaks - a perfect match of colours. All their faces were covered with their black hoods.

The left one was armed with a long spear in his hands, and a crossbow on his back. A tall strong man stood beside him, holding a Dwarven Warhammer in one of his hands; the bloody head of one of the companions in the other. The main assassin stood in the middle; as the master of them, he stood strongly and almost proudly. On his right, a woman; a female assassin, holding a long, dirty dart rope, a sharp, metal dart at the end. And on the right side, the last assassin, a young man, armed with a long great sword.

The 4 companions ran to their death; five against four, there was no chance to win that war. But still, they went. The first one died without a single chance to defend him; with the dart hope though its throat, he fell dead like a broken mannequin.

The second one was hit by two arrows, one on his chest and the other at his leg. Yet, he got up and broke the arrow in his leg. The flesh ripped off it; the blood oozing down to the ground. He had no other choice - his skin started to break, the blood splashing on the walls. His legs became stronger, his nails, longer, his teeth grew like the sharp, pointed knives the assassins had. His eyes turned a crimson red; as red as the depths of hell. The transformation was complete. The companions showed their real form, the bloody werewolves stood, facing the assassins on all four monstrous legs; taller and broader than them. Their teeth were bared, sharp enough to pierce through bone. They growled loudly and deeply; their long talons digging into the bricked ground. Their backs were arched; the hair along their spines on end. One of the companions, the younger one, still wasn't cursed to be a werewolve like the other ones.

The two werewolves attacked the assassins, holding them down.

"Run, kid; search for Wulf Wild-Blood!" One of the beasts roared, "Do _not_return until he is with you, by your side! GO!"

He thought of no other option but to jump from there. He stand on the edge of the cold, brick wall; feeling the cold air. He looked down at the stones that his body was soon going to find; looked back, and the companions were back in their normal forms. He watched them die. Their decapitated bodies; cold and lifeless. He closed his weak, scared eyes and was ready to plunge to his preferred way of death –

"Hold on, kid, we're just arriving!" He heard, from the darkness.

Although he was too weak to open his own eyes.


End file.
